Two years, four months and five days
by ChengingSeasons
Summary: "It's been two years. Two years, four months and 5 days, if I were to be precise, and my life seems to have gone with him. The world seems to have gone with him, and everything couldn't get more ironic, could it? I kept telling him that the world didn't revolve around him, over and over, and yet look at me now." - WARNING: ANGST AF. Rated M for the complexity of the subject.


'An immensely cold breeze comes through the window and I can feel several goosebumps in my skin. It's stupidly cold inside, freezing outside - I don't know whether I should laugh or cry at my stubbornness that might lead me to death. I might as well laugh. It's been years since I've last done that activity. The muscles in my face has probably atrofied as time passed by, and I never noticed. It's not at all unprobable.

It's been two years. Two years, four months and 5 days, if I were to be precise, and my life seems to have gone with him. The world seems to have gone with him, and everything couldn't get more ironic, could it? I kept telling him that the world didn't revolve around him, over and over, and yet look at me now. I can't go anywhere without this empty feeling in my chest, I don't see the point in talking to people when they seem so insipid now, I might not even know what it is like to be happy - he finally went somewhere I couldn't quite follow, and he might as well have taken my entire world with him.

He's always been mysterious. I should have known his disappearance - death - would be enigmatic. That's the least Fate could have done to him, one last endearment. He'd have hated if his disappearance - death - were terribly pedestrian. He is nothing but unique. This, however, does not make the situation I'm in, have been in for years, any less hurtful. How could it? I used to have nightmares about the war, bombs, fire and death, and I thought they were the most horrible things to see in your sleep. Frankly, I'd go back to these nightmares in a heartbeat if I could, if that meant I could go back to my life at that time. Nowadays though, I dream with that fateful day almost everyday, as if my subconscious didn't have enough energy or will to change the movie. No more bombs, no more comrades dying, just me going to the kitchen first thing in the morning and seeing that the tea mug was untouched and the flat empty. Just me, waiting two hours before texting. Just me, waiting thirty minutes until I decided to go to the Yard. Just me, experiencing the beginning of my death.

He would have laughed at me if he saw me all frantic and desperate as I was. And I'd laugh too, because it didn't matter that he was making fun of me, it didn't matter where he went and why he hadn't called, because he'd be there and with me and everything would go back to normal again.

But that didn't happen, and I was left here at our flat to mop alone. Days passed, and I was still trying to convince me that he was only on a case - an unusual case. But then someone knocked on my door, and I saw the look of devastation on my friend's face. Behind him was, well, you know who. Looking as elegant as always, with his indispensable umbrella in a suit - but something in his eyes was quite off too. Only then I realised that whatever happened, it wasn't normal, it wasn't safe. My brain went all fuzzy all of a sudden and I suspect my face must have fallen spetacularly, for my friend threw himself at me in a bear hug. How surprised I was when I saw the umbrella man closing his eyes, and my eyes were definitely wide open in shock when a tear strained down his face. Now that I think about it, I wish I had taken a photo. I don't think I'll ever see that scene again.

And then I wake up, usually with my face wet, and then proceed to take in where I am. This is my routine now, you'd think I got used to it by now. And I suppose I did - sort of did. For two years, four months and five days I've been having the same dream every night, and the same waking moment everyday, and I don't feel anything but sorrow and an ugly, giant pain in my chest that won't go away. They are a part of me now, I guess. All my life fell away since that last moment of my dream, and all that's left are these feelings I can't quite shake off. I can't bring myself to move out of our flat, even if everything screamed memories of a life I'll never have again.

My friend and the umbrella man moved on with their lives. They occasionally stop by to say hello and chat a little, and I pretend I'm fine during those moments. I must have gotten really good at pretending, because no one else gave me pitying looks anymore - I'm relieved. I don't need pitying looks, I don't need anything but my old world. Sometimes, I touch the violin he used to play so much, but I've never dared move it from its place. Every piece of clothing, every experiment, everything is exactly where it was two years ago, and I have no intention of changing it. Who would have guessed I'd be talking to the skull someday? That happens quite frequently now, much to my landlady's concern. She doesn't understand the magnitude of my sorrow, I'm sure, but she does know I still haven't moved on. I sincerely believe I never will. I don't want to.

And I won't have to, because I'm giving up being pathetic like this. I stopped writing since that day, but I decided it would be nice to write one last time. So here it is, my last report of my life, one I expect only my friend will read and keep it secret, because I'm almost sure I received enough pity to last a lifetime - sorry, bad phrasing.

I can't take this anymore. I don't see the point of surviving a war by pure luck, meeting my love - something he didn't, doesn't and will never know he was - by luck as well, having the most amazing life for a couple of years just to have everything brusquely taken away. I sound so cheesy, he'd definitely make some spiteful comments about my writing if he were here. But, look - I didn't write a title. The one thing I never complied when he asked me to. But what's the point of a title when the text below has too much information to resume in a few words? My mind is dead. Has been for two years, four months and five days now. My scarred transport is the only thing keeping me here, and I don't intend to continue like this any longer. Now I understand why he tried so much to keep his mind occupied; the moment my mind stagnated, I died. And now I'm sick of this black-and-white world I'm stuck in.

In case my friend actually reads this, please know that I do love you. Or loved, by the time you find this. I do love you, and you-know-who, and my precious landlady, my sister and all my friends that tried to give me back the life I'd lost. However, you must understand that this has nothing to do with you at all. This has to do with me, his disappearance - _death_ , I must remind myself, there's no use in deluding myself anymore - and my feelings which were gone with him. He took me to wherever he went and now when I look at the mirror, I can see that I'm not the person I once was. Not anymore. I don't know what will happen, I'm not really expecting to "find him wherever he is" when I'm done with this, but at least I won't have to futilely live like I am.

Now, since this is my last chance to have this recorded somehow, I love him. Love, in the present, because I don't think my love for him is simply stuck within my body and mind. It's much bigger, too big, big enough to overwhelm me. I love Sherlock Holmes, and I'm sorry for any unpleasant feelings you might have for what I'm about to do. I won't do it here, obviously. This place is far too precious and innocent for it to happen here.

With love,

J.W.'

Sherlock felt his cheeks wet and his vision was blurry, but it was irrelevant. His hands were shaking as he stared at the letter he was holding, and his chest was threatening to give him a heart attack. He felt as if his chest was ripped open, his heart torn apart. He couldn't stop crying. His knees finally gave out, and he fell.

Mycroft called him at 3am of the day before, and Sherlock did indeed notice that something rather important had happened for his brother's voice cracked at the end of his greeting. Not in a million years, however, did he expect to find out that John has been found dead in an abandoned house in London. A house on the opposite side of Baker Street. Sherlock had frozen, not quite believing for a few seconds, before he bought the first flight to London and fled the hotel he was staying in Thailand. He spent the whole flight trying not to accept it, trying, for the first time, not to hear the truth in his Mycroft's voice. He didn't sleep.

When his feet finally touched London ground, Sherlock spotted Mycroft's shiny black car immediately, and his eyes watered when he noticed Mycroft himself was inside, together with Lestrade. He silently entered the car, and refused to meet their eyes.

Sherlock did not see John. He promptly denied to see him, because he knew John wouldn't want him to. He didn't even enter the house, although he stared at it for hours, until they had to move John to the morgue. Only then he turned his head around, and started walking slowly to the one place he has ever called home. By then his cheeks were already tear-strained, and he suspected his eyes were pink-ish, but he forced himself to remember his - their - time at 221B Baker Street. The best moment of his entire life, with his only friend - the best friend he could ever hope for. A friend who was now gone.

He found Miss Hudson at her flat, crying and holding a jumper John had given her a few Christmas ago. She made a move to slap him when he posted himself in her view, but stopped when she saw his face. She started crying harder and threw herself at Sherlock, and Sherlock could do nothing but to hug her even tighter, letting his tears fall freely now. After what it seemed hours, he stepped back and, giving her one last squeeze, climbed up the stairs.

Their flat was exactly the way he left it, much to his surprise. His experiments, all useless now, were displayed on the kitchen table, his violin was below the window just as he left it the day he had to vanish. Ever so slowly, he climbed to John's room, and stopped dead at the door. He blinked one, two, three times to stop the tears, but they wouldn't abide. He has never cried so much, and never with this intensity. John's clothes were messy and all over the room, his bed hasn't been made for months, his possessions haven't been cleaned in months too, which was odd, because Sherlock's stuff were perfectly clean downstairs. His room screamed chaos, and Sherlock curled up in his bed, sobbing and regretting everything he's done since that day. John had been terrible, much more terrible than Sherlock could ever imagine, that much was clear. And now Sherlock had to deal with the consequences, as hurtful as they are.

He touched the skull a few hours later. It almost felt like a betrayal, having the skull now. Because now, the gloomy side of Sherlock reminded him, he has two skulls as friends - no. John will never be a skull to him, even if that meant giving up logic and reason for a moment. And just as he was about to throw the skull in the bin, Sherlock noticed a small, folded paper inside it. His heart skips three beats, and his eyes water again. He didn't put anything there before he vanished, he knew, which meant it could have been only one other person who had put it there. Trembling, he let the skull fall to the floor and opened the paper.

It's been two years, four months and six days since he last saw John smiling. He never will again.


End file.
